A Man about a Dog

Tags

4x4, Andy Murray, Border Terrier, Fatted Calf, flugelhorn, Philippe Johnson, Pritt stick, St Birinus

 An old one for Andy, the Border Terrier fans.  Incidentally, named

after Andy Murray.

MISSING!

REWARD FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO RETURN OF:

ANDY

Much beloved and sorely missed pet of the Willoughby family,

Willoughby House,

1 North Street,

Suttonford.

Tel: Suttonford 753799

starry-eyed@suttonworld.co.uk

A male, castrated Border Terrier, micro-chipped.  Friendly, slight

bladder problem, requires expensive medication.

Last seen Sunday, 16^th January, 2013 in walled rear garden of above

address.

Brassie was just about to jump into her 4×4 to race down to St

Birinus Middle with her son’s flugelhorn, which he’d forgotten to

take with him that morning, when she noticed a puddle in the drive

and a rolled up piece of paper which was sticking out of her

letterbox.

She unrolled the scroll and read the following:

Hey, missus, have your dog back.  He just peed all over the van and

barked non-stop.  He’s a ***liability.

Look round the back garden.  He’s tied up to that funny metal thing

in the middle of the lawn.

Don’t try to fingerprint this as we always wear gloves.

Brassie was annoyed before the relief kicked in.  That metal thing

was a genuine Philippe Johnson sculpture that they had sourced from

his studio in Sussex!

But, Andy, darling!

There he was, looking none the worse for wear and licking her hands

continually while she struggled to unknot the hairy string which

bound him to the artwork.

She ran to the get the dog bowl at the back door which sported the

slogan:  Chien en Psychanalyse.  Clearly he was very thirsty.

Oh the relief!  She picked him up and placed him in the back of the

4×4 and put the dog guard in place.  She wasn’t about to let him out

of her sight.  The fatted calf would be slain this evening.  This dog of

theirs that was lost had now been found!

She would ask the school receptionist to put a note in Mr Milford-

Haven’s pigeon-hole, so that he could tell the boys the good news.

Then she would text Cosmo at work and would call in at the police

station on the way back home to report Andy’s return to the nice

constable.  She had better remove all those notices on High Street

and environs.  Thankfully they had saved on a reward.

Half way down to school, she remembered that she had left the

overdue Latin prep on the hall table.  Drat!  It had taken her an hour

last night.

Leaving the flugelhorn in Reception, where it took up an inordinate

amount of room and caused Mr Snodbury to trip over it when he

came in to snaffle a few too many red pens and a Pritt-stick for his

personal use-  (to secure an unfranked Xmas card stamp that he

had carefully steamed off, I believe, but no matter..)- Brassie left a

note for the twins’ form master which concluded with the following:

Sorry about the prep, sed Mihi ignosce, cum homine de cane debeo

congredi , which, I believe, could be translated thus:

Excuse me, but I’ve got to see a man about a dog.

 

 

 

 

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What’s in a Name?

Tags

acronym, Andy Murray, Anish Kapoor, Avon, Bermuda shorts, Black Hole, Boson particle, Edinburgh panda, FT, hadron collider, hippocampus, Indyref#, Jess the cat, Michael Caine, Mrs Goggins, National Trust card, orthotic inserts, Postman Pat, Premium Bond, root vegetables, Royal Mail, SCD, sea-horse, short term memory, Strictly, terpsichorean, Weekend Section

No, it’s not Avon calling, since no one has rung the doorbell.  Sadly, neither

is it an envelope bearing an address from the Indyref#supporting city of

Glasgow on its rear flap, indicating a life-changing Premium Bond re-

invested win of twenty-five quid.  Nor is it a tax rebate.  No, it is one of

those annoying red and white cards from Royal Mail which commands you

to rise, take up your bed and walk to the local office to pick up your parcel,

which was too large to be shredded through the letterbox.

Wait!  I struggle to put on my shoes with their orthotic inserts and race out,

subsequently hoping I have put my door on its latch.  Where is the wretched

Postman Pat?  There’s no sign of a baseball cap, nor unseasonable Bermuda

shorts.  There’s no sign of Jess, the cat, or Mrs Goggins.

There is a red trolley parked a couple of doors away, standing like an Anish

Kapoor sculpture in a sea of loom bands..  Hey!  Maybe the parcel is still on

board.

Apparently not.  Don’t be stupid.  They never had any intention to deliver it.

Did I detect a smirk?

No, the nuisance package is awaiting my collection at a local office which

has restricted opening hours.  And it won’t be available till the next working

day after the non-event.

That will be Saturday. There is absolutely zero chance of The Husband’s short-

term memory system kicking in at the weekend.  He is unable to simultaneously

hold the concepts of mail retrieval and FT purchase.  Maybe it’s something to

do with his hippocampus. (I think that influences short term memory, but I

can’t remember.)

Anyway, forget seven items’ recall, plus or minus two.  He struggles to

remember two.  He seems to struggle to process what I’m talking about.

Naively, I expected him to follow my simple instructions to buy some carrots

and parsnips, along with his newspaper.  But then, mentally over-loaded,

he wouldn’t have remembered to fetch the package, would he?.

I know that is a total of three things, but he could have grouped both

edibles under a superordinate term, such as ‘root vegetables’ and then he

would have only had two purchases to recall.  You surely don’t have to be

Derren Brown to think of coping strategies.

Probably The Husband’s hippocampus shrank and re-absorbed itself, like

the Edinburgh panda did with its foetus, when he was faced with multi-

tasking.

I bet male hippocampi don’t function like their namesake sea-horses, who

at least have the decency to share the female workload more equitably.

So, I get to go for the parcel and the parsnips.  He’s already deep in The FT

‘Money’ supplement.  He reminds me of that man who had to be rescued from

his bubble in the Atlantic.  Except The Husband doesn’t want to be rescued.

He loves his bubble.  And sometimes I like it too.

There’s a queue and the woman in front of me is being asked for ID.  Okay, I

think smugly, I’ve got some bank cards and a National Trust card:

out-of-date- but nevertheless..

Zut alors!  The parcel is addressed to The Husband.  I don’t happen to be

carrying his passport, or driving licence on me.  Do I have the STD card?

Supposed Time of Delivery?  I think of Andy Murray and his novel

utilisation of the acronym.  He was laughed down for texting his

terpsichorean mother to wish her good luck with the ‘STD’.  I believe

he meant SCD, but he wasn’t being ‘Strictly‘ accurate.

Just keep serving!

Anyway, I digress..

It’s okay, I remonstrate. The postie knows me.  We talk nearly every day,

mainly through the letter-flap, when he fails to close it and a howling gale

like a Boson particle zooming round a hadron collider whooshes down my

hall.  He could push the vast wad of junk mail completely through, if he

feels that he really must burden the planet with it.  Why doesn’t he just

dump it like some of his colleagues are wont to do?  In a Black Hole,

preferably.

This woman is as immoveable as a post-box.

No, we need proof of ID for the addressee.  Names are very important

to us.Just like your custom.

Right, but that works both ways, I parry.  You’re not so particular

when it comes to stuffing any old person’s correspondence and bank

statements through my front door.  Anyhow, I can tell you that the box

contains a replacement fridge shelf.  Not many people would know that.

So, it must be ours.

She doesn’t pick up on the Michael Caine reference.

Okay, you can have it just this once, she concedes, but next time I need

a couple of utility bills in his name.

Not Michael Caine’s then.  I’m having fun.

I return to find The Husband still wading through the pink newspaper.

I picked up your parcel, I say.

(He’s not listening.)

You did get the carrots, didn’t you? I persevere.  I can’t see them in my

fridge.  No, our fridge. When I can’t see them in the first person

possessive plural’s fridge it means they are not there.

Sorry, I forgot, he confesses lamely.

And it’s then that I look in my bag and have to admit to myself that

I have forgotten to buy parsnips.  But I don’t tell him.  I just sneak out

while he reads his way through the rest of The Weekend Section.

I’m not infallible.  But not many people are allowed to guess that.

Wonderful Counsellor

Tags

Andy Murray, Birgitte Nyborg Christiansen, Border Terrier, Borgen, Castor and Pollux, grooming, Patty Hearst, Stockholm syndrome

Castor and Pollux had not done their prep.  Mr Milford-Haven was

just about to issue them with a joint detention, when they both burst

into tears.  Mum couldn’t help us with Latin as she was very upset,

they wailed.

Mr Milford-Haven realised that there was more to the episode than

was immediately apparent.  This was because he was a reasonably

decent, empathetic sort of chap and therefore not too much the

over-rigorous disciplinarian.  This led certain pupils and parents to

take advantage of his kindly nature, but he had decided that he

would not wish to change his approach, however difficult things

were at times.

Do you want to tell me why your mother was upset?  He was

sensitive to the need for discretion.  He knew that other masters had

solicited family exposures with their topics on weekly news.

Sometimes children would reveal the most private information.

It’s just that Andy has disappeared, they said simultaneously.

Andy?

Yes.  Dad was up in his observatory and Mum had been spending a

lot of time grooming Andy.  She loves him really.

Grooming.  That was one of the words that sent alarm bells ringing in

Nigel’s ears. He had just endured- no, benefitted from- yet another

child protection session and he was aware that women could be

involved in unsavoury activity, nearly as much as men.

Come and see me at break in my office, he told them.  He simply had

to start the class before the noise got out of hand and Old Snodbury

next door would come and stand outside his class and peer through

the glass panel in the door with a disapproving look that told of years

of applied control.  Snod would probably have slippered the

twins for a similar offence thirty years previously.  No excuses and no

questions.

The twins appeared at break.  Nigel had two packets of crisps and

two cartons of juice to the ready, as well as a box of Kleenex.  He left

the door slightly ajar.

Now what is this all about? he began.  Your mother was spending

time with Andy while your father was elsewhere?

Yes, she always sets some time aside for him in the afternoon,

volunteered Castor.

She combs his hair and cuddles him, added Pollux.

Nigel tried to look dispassionate.  And is this Andy part of the family?

Of course, they both agreed vehemently.

Sometimes it is a family member, thought Nigel.  And how old is he?

About 21, considered Castor, clearly making a calculation.

Disgusting, thought Nigel.  A woman who has responsibilities

indulging herself with some toy boy behind her husband’s back and

neglecting her children.  Mind you, he corrected himself.  For all I know,

the situation could be like Birgitte Nyborg Christensen’s in that Danish

political drama.  Maybe the twins’ mother felt forced into having an affair

because her husband, like Philip, the PM’s husband, had gone off with

some flirtatious paedophile-no, that was the wrong word- paediatric

woman.  He’d better reserve judgement.  That was what the training

session had advised.

And why was your mother upset on this occasion?

Well, she had just spent a lot of money on having him cast..

..rated, supplied Pollux.

What?  This woman was evil!  She was ensuring that there would be

no comeback by paying for her lover’s vasectomy!  He began to feel

that the young man was also being abused.

Andy had to go outside in the garden to pee.  He never returned and

Mum had made his bed all lovely and cosy for him, said Castor.

Mum is furious with dad because when she told him he said he was

finding it difficult to cope with him anyway, clarified Pollux.

And Andy is only 21, you said.  Nigel thought that the victim must be

feeling very vulnerable.  Actually he had quite a few victims to deal

with in this scenario.

Perhaps he required counselling.  Nigel had a photocard with a

telephone contact number for a very good street pastor.  However,

the twins were priority.

So what would you like to happen?  This was one of the open

questions he had been trained to employ.

We’d all like him to come back.

Wasn’t this an example of that syndrome that Patty Hearst

developed?  Sympathy and support for her abuser’s plight?

Stockholm Syndrome!  Yes, very complex this situation.  It would take

him hours to write a report.  Drat!  He had been going to watch

Borgen tonight.

So, even your father is upset?

Yes, he bought him for Mum in the first place, even though he eats

everything in sight.

What a liberally-minded and tolerant father, thought Nigel.

Would you like me to try to contact Andy to see if he is all right?  Do

you have his mobile number?

The twins exchanged a look: But he doesn’t have a phone.  He is

tagged, though.

Everyone has a phone, thought Nigel. Even toddlers.  He must have

been kept as some sort of slave. He wondered if he was an illegal

immigrant.

Where did he come from originally?

The Borders, we think.

Ah, some transit camp- maybe he crossed over illegally-paid some

syndicate a fortune for a ticket and the criminal stole his papers. He

began to be worried: maybe he was a terrorist?  At least someone in

the authorities is aware and is tracking him, though, since he has

been tagged.

And he is only 21, he repeated sadly.

In dog years, Castor elucidated.

Yes, he is three in our years, added Pollux.

Nigel heard the bell ring metaphorically as well as literally.  He hadn’t

even had time to pee himself or to get a coffee.  The withdrawal

symptoms would make him irritable with his next class and it was

ages till lunch.  He was on yard duty too and so would barely have

time to snatch a sandwich.

But you said he was a border refugee!  He didn’t add any expressions

such as asylum seeker, sex slave, or Islamist terrorist on the run.

He is a Border terrier! they replied

And he ate your homework- right?  Nigel had heard this one before.

He was becoming rapidly less sympathetic.

No, he was dog-napped, we think, and that’s why Mum was so upset

and couldn’t help us with our Latin translation.

Credo quia absurdam est, muttered Nigel. (I believe it because it is

ridiculous.)

Okay, guys. You’d better get off to Mr Snodbury’s class.. (He had

nearly said Snod!)  Dispensation till tomorrow.  I hadn’t realised that

Andy was-hem- a family pet. (caveat canem!)

And the twins slipped off their stools and, grabbing the crisp packets,

picked up their satchels and added:

He’s named after Andy Murray, you know!

I do now, thought Nigel wearily.  Ah well, perhaps he would be able

to watch Borgen.  Two less wretched preps to mark tonight!

 

 

 

 

Match Point

Tags

Andrew Fairlie, Andy Murray, Chronicles of Narnia, Church of the Holy Rude, Dunblane, Dunblane Cathedral, Dunblane Hydro, Gleneagles Hotel

St Ninian’s Day.

Ninian died on 16^th September, 432 AD.  He was the Apostle to the Southern Picts.  The cathedral in Perth is named after him, but I do not think Andy had time to leave Dunblane to light a wee tea-light in gratitude.  He had his own St Blane to attend to. Draped in a Saltire, the Muzzard was mobbed by local fans who had waited in the rain for him, perhaps hoping for a couple of years to be knocked off their personal purgatories.  He signed a few indulgences for his primary school followers.

I wonder if he went up to Dunblane Hydro, so disappointing now that it has had the Hilton chain treatment, with piped-and I don’t mean bagpiped- muzak-in its public lavatories.  The makeover style is nineties corporate, so I do not think that they will get the wedding booking.  Serves them right.

I expect that Andy’s moody black and white photograph will join the other portraits of Famous Scots in the bar. The Husband and I relaxed on some very comfy, squidgy sofas in the said area and waited, almost as long as it took Andy to win his first Grand Slam, for a coffee and hot chocolate.  The latter (no, I meant latter, not latte) arrived with marshmallows-a kind gesture-, but, believe you me, if you want mallows, haste ye back to The Gleneagles Hotel and Andrew Fairlie will convert you for life.  Anything else is a Marshwiggle (see Chronicles of Narnia).

Dunblane Cathedral would be the perfect second best option to The Church of the Holy Rude, Stirling (as mentioned in previous postings), for Andy’s Coronation. Sorry, I meant marriage.  Friends of Dunblane Cathedral could add a new misericord to the fantastic set that they already have there.  Since there is a quirkily carved bat on one, why not have a modern racquet on a commemorative seat, specially carved for Andy to sit on whenever he visits to take up his Freedom of the City?  If Kim needs to sit beside him, they could always get a local craftsman to carve a cute little Border terrier for her particular throne.  Maybe they would need three extra seats, if mummy always comes along, so she could have a raven or a dagger on hers.

But what if Kim wants to wed down south, in Wimbledon, or Surrey?  What if she judges Andy to be a bit of a skinnymalinkylonglegs for a kilt? Pity, as a sporran would be just the job for him to keep a couple of tennis balls to the ready, for throwing to his retinue after the service.  Kim might have to realise that she is marrying a legend (You’re epic, Andy, the banners read.)  Like Ruth in the Old Testament, his people might have to become her people.  Certainly his god has already had to become hers.

So, she’d better have a sprig of white heather in her bouquet and sport a Murray tartan garter.  Maybe she will be drummed through Dunblane and chained to the railings with a chamber pot placed in front of her, to pick up a nuptial collection, in the auld tradition.  Or she may simply lodge her wedding list at Jenner’s, Edinburgh:

2 gold feeding bowls with Olympic rings (engraved) – presumably for the dogs

Saltire champion-sized duvet set

Gold frame for Lendl photo

American fridge filled with Irn-Bru

Deep fat fryer for Mars Bars

Judy annexe

Kim annexe

New DVD player..

I wonder if Andrew Fairlie will be asked to do the catering?

Fairlie: and how do you like your deep fried Mars Bar?

Andy: Saignant, I think..  No, a point.

Fairlie: For you, Andy, it will be match point.  Eh, and how do you like your Border terrier?

Andy: Medium rare, I think.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Muzzard Magic

Tags

Alex Salmond, Andy Murray, Angela Tilby, Bacon, Church of the Holy Rude, Dunblane Cathedral, Educating Essex, Flushing Meadows, galaxyzoo, James Bond, Macbeth, Montaigne, Rowan Williams, Sean Connery, Shakespeare, Sir Alex Ferguson, Stephen Drew, Stirling, US Open, Zen

So, a new star in the firmament then?  Let’s look at galaxyzoo.org.  We may be dazzled by the reflected effulgence from a great big rock on Kim Sear’s left hand, or it might not be too many light years before we get its blue shift.  I mean the girl has sat through so many cosmic matches and had to put up with a boyfriend who watches Wedding Crashes rather than wedding planner videos.  She hangs out with the near eponymous Too good to hurry mint.  Muzzard’s mum lit up like Venus when squeezed by Sean Connery, so there could be feeling somewhere out there in the dark matter of their tennis universe.

Or is there?  Andy did express some emotion at misplacing his sponsored watch after the game, but even though this triumph was one giant leap for Murraykind, he limited himself to a fairly Zen-like self-appraisal about being happy on the inside, if not exhibiting it on the outside.  If ever there was a time for a burst of: If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands, then this was it.  Sir Alex nearly choked on his chewing gum, for Goodness sake.   At least he didn’t hug anyone.

Philosophy was topical, with Canon Angela Tilby on Thought for the Day recounting the Zen reaction of a falsely accused monk, who only reacted by reiterating, Is that so?   This was a reaction also much favoured by Stephen Drew, Deputy Headmaster, who failed to respond prematurely to teenage angst in Passmores School, as shown on the programme Educating Essex.   Clearly it is a successful modus operandi.

Rowan Williams appeared to be a Zen master, as well as a bardic Druid, when he neither excused nor justified himself over his past record, but merely made the low key comment : I don’t think I cracked it.

However, understatement is different from dissimulation, which is pretence and projection of a false self.  So, when an interviewer asked Andy to comment on his 2.30 am victory-..if you could dissimulate that..  my ears could not fail to detect this crass lexical choice with all of its Macbeth, or even Malcolm connotations:

False face must hide what the false heart doth know

or the advice not to be

as a book in where man may read strange matters.

Andy roared like a rutting stag when he was taking control, so I do not see that he is guilty of equivocation.  It is more a feature of Lendl to restrain himself.  Maybe the latter has been making a study of Machiavelli, Bacon or Montaigne, in order to advise his young prince.  Malcolm was the character who adopted the strategy of dissimulation to engineer his claim to the Scottish throne.  Now there’s an over-reaching step to set oneself after the Flushing Meadows novelty has worn off.

So, maybe the Church of the Holy Rude at Stirling, a coronation site, could prepare itself for a nuptial celebration, or an elevation to the Salmond hierarchy for the boy who done us proud {sic}

Dunblane butchers are already promoting their Grand Slam sausages and burgers, so the wedding breakfast could be served with a bit of black pudding and some deep fried Mars Bars, to continue our astral theme, and if the Hydro could be considered too windy a venue for an outdoor barbecue, at least it would deter Culicoides impunctatus, Meanbh-chuileag, or the biting midgie.  The males are benign; it is the female who are the deadlier of the species.  However, a little touch of OO7 appeared to cure the Queen’s Evil and Judy seemed a lot less scrofulous after that wee cuddle.  She got the real Bond, whereas Her Majesty only got Daniel Craig.

Aye, Sean, I’d put my kilt in the cleaners pdq and check the pleats for moth damage because I think you’ll be giving it an airing pretty soon.  Let’s hope you are not double booked for October 5^th. (Global Bond Day)

Mind you, Dunblane Cathedral would make a pretty backdrop for such a ceremony, with its plaques to three poisoned sisters who aspired too high for the nobles of the day- a fitting reminder to Kim to keep her nose clean?

If she can bear to keep playing Scrabble without winning and can avoid words like dissimulate, she is probably on to a high word score.

Lo he comes with clouds descending is a brilliant rallying hymn for a conquering hero, so they might choose that as an antiphon or introit.  Mummy could give him away (not really) and the floral wreathed Border terriers could be attendants.

See yez all at Scone!

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

A Heap of Broken Images

Tags

Alex Salmond, Andy Murray, Bradshaw's Guide, David Dinnie, Edinburgh Military Tattoo, Eurozone, Fifty Shades of Grey, Forth Rail Bridge, Highland games, Iron Brew, Isaac, Lysistrata, Merlot, Michael Portillo, Neil Oliver, New Orleans, Only Connect, Patrick Moore, Perlmutter, Scotland the Brave, The Sun, The Waste Land, Togo, Top Secret, University Challenge, Victoria Coren

Bank Holiday Monday

Someone sent me an attachment this morning which was headed Fifty Shades of Grey for Men.  It was a paint chart.  There is nothing remotely sexual about Elephant’s Breath, I think.

Tropical storm Isaac is heading for New Orleans on the 7^th anniversary of Katrina’s cataclysm.

The geographical feature that is characterised by cataclysm is deluge and not earthquake, as one panellist on University Challenge mistook tonight.

It was an evening of quizzes, with the return of a slightly more overweight Victoria Coren on Only Connect. Watching this programme, I feel like a character in The Waste Land:

I can connect

Nothing with nothing..

Victoria is like Madame Sosostris, the wisest woman in Europe, with a wicked pack of cards.  She apparently loves poker.  She stands by The Wall which is a heap of broken images and :

 uncorseted, her friendly bust

 Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

I wish that she had retained the Greek letters of the alphabet on the question choice blocks.  These were replaced through attacks on elitism.  Now, if the women of Togo read The Lysistrata, then why the general dumbing down in this country?  After all, the substituted hieroglyphics are just as refined, though pictorially evident, I suppose.  My favourite is horned viper.

Curiously, Victoria’s dresses are becoming tighter and tighter and her fantasies more curious too- she admitted to a desire to find a naked Michael Portillo in her dressing room, seated on a case of Merlot.  The Merlot you could understand… Personally, I would prefer to read Bradshaw through, cover to cover, in a single sitting.  Still, there’s nowt so queer as fowk.

The Edinburgh Military Tattoo was next and the best bit was the drumming cohort from Switzerland, Top Secret.  I looked carefully but our friend, Roger, was not of their number. The second best bit was the mass formation for Scotland the Brave. You can keep all thon fancy film scorey type tunes and I think Alex Salmond would have been pretty annoyed at them playing There’ll Always be an England, unless it conveyed the proviso:  doon there and no’ up here.

The whole evening was devoted to tartan programmes about Highland Games all over the world, in places such as North Carolina. There are more games held worldwide than in Scotia itself.

The only interesting programme was Horizon with its explanation of the infinite expansion of the universe. If Scotland keeps expanding exponentially then it should be good for Pitlochry looms and kiltmakers in general.  As a nation it will grow vaster than empires and more slow, no probably even faster.  However, the programme stressed that we were all in this together and could not go it alone, as multiple galaxies are swallowed.  So, Alex, we need to remain united so that we can fight all the dark matter in the Eurozone and in other global economies together.

A programme on the Highland Games showcased David Dinnie who had been the world’s most renowned athlete in times gone by.  Women used to faint away at the sight of his torso, in much the same way as they do now when they see pictures in The Sun of every Tom, Dick and Harry letting their hair down. (Not.)  Leave the hair business to Neil Oliver, I say.

Anyway, Dinnie used to endorse Iron Brew, as I think it was spelled back then- (Scotland’s other national beverage- made frae girders.)  He looked as if he had licked the Forth Rail Bridge.  Maybe a wee taste of A G Barr’s fizzy drink’s 0.002% ammonium ferric citrate was what Andy Murray had doped himself on before winning Olympic gold.  Aye, Alex Salmond, ye can take the man oot o’ Scotland, but ye cannae tak’ the iron oot o’ his soul.

Alba gu brath!

Tuesday 28^th

My scientific observations seem to be confirming Professor Perlmutter’s Nobel prizewinning research about exponential expansion of the Universe.  I am quite taken with cosmology now.  I noticed a very large, docile dog on a lead at the local Lavender café.  It was very like a lurcher, but much larger.  I asked its owner what breed it was and she said, A fat greyhound.  Also there are all these sightings of lions in Clacton-on-Sea etc which turn out to be large feral cats.  Some can be four foot in length so you could be mistaken for thinking that they are pumas, especially if you have been on the old Merlot for the evening.  Stick to Irn- Bru, I say.  It puts hairs on your chest and dampens down the Portillo fantasies.

Anyway, everything is becoming larger- Patrick Moore, Victoria Coren and the whole Universe.  No wonder I can’t get into my favourite jeans.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Borders

Tags

Andy Murray, Border Terrier, Jonny Wilkinson, Kim Sears, pole vault, Roger Federer, tennis, Vlad the Impaler

Tuesday, 6^th August

I thought the pole vaulting last night had looked dangerous.   Vlad the Impaler might have been turned on by its finer points. Frankly, the most efficient way to clear that bar would have been to be kicked over by Jonny Wilkinson in his heyday.

Rain blanketed most of the daylight hours, so I spent an inordinate amount of time online.

Kim Sears, Andy’s inamorata, who shares his 5 million pound mansion in Surrey, has posted photos of his medals draped around the necks of Maggie May and Rusty, their Border terriers.  It seems a tad disrespectful, but she was probably bored if he had decided to unwind by playing on that dratted Playstation incessantly.  It must be frustrating for a girl who has a degree in English from a respectable academic establishment, such as The University of Sussex, to watch a ball bouncing back and forth all day.

Borders.  Hmm. They are becoming a bit downmarket since they have been appearing in DFS adverts.  Yet, they look kinda cute, in spite of their grizzled muzzles and remind me of Andrew Cruikshank in Dr Finlay’s Casebook.  Maybe Kim has seen old episodes and is attracted to fairly monosyllabic Scots named after the patron saint of Auld Caledonia.

Janet:  You’ll have had your tea, Dr Snoddie.

Snoddie: Aye, that I have, Jennet.

Janet:  Och, Dr Cameron, it’s gruesome!

Dr Cameron:  Well, Jennet…

No, Kim is probably too young for that one.

Apparently Kim had taken to painting portraits of doggy pets, but someone has taken down her website. I wondered who the saboteur might be. Or was that saboteuse? Everyone was speculating as to whether Andy might pop the question when he flew up to the box like a Milk Tray man. If he had, then Kim could fill a pram instead of a canvas.  Mummy Murray would like to suck, no, coach new blood and it would give Kim something practical to do, like Mrs F., who probably spends a lot of time changing the twins, or bleaching Roger’s shorts to a dazzling whiteness.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Murray Mints Gold

Tags

Andy Murray, Ben Ainslie, Boris Johnson, David Cameron, James Naughtie, London 2012, Olympics, Pussy Riot, Roger Federer, Spice Girls, tennis

Sunday

Thunderstorms forecast.  Interesting for Ben Ainslie, I deliberated.

Twenty three medals up for grabs today.  Four weeks ago Andy was greetin’ on court.  I wondered who would be crying at the end of the day.  Would Federer treat Andy like a giant midge at a barbecue, ie/ like a harmless nuisance to be shooed away, or would he see him as a pesky wasp who might give him a fatal anaphylactic sting?

At 2pm I settled down on the sofa to start watching.  It was difficult as I had to keep flicking over to see Ben’s progress against the Great Dane.  Did that make Andy’s opponent a St Bernard?  I wouldn’t have minded being rescued from a crevasse by a brandy delivered on the rocks by the Swiss, to continue the canine and/or avalanche imagery.

Ainslie came in all flares blazing, having blocked the Dane’s wind.  That must have been painful for the Scandinavian.  I once read, in Suetonius perhaps, that Roman emperors, but can’t remember which one, had believed in never obstructing wind.  But Ben hadn’t been a Classicist, I remembered. Maybe Boris could give him a few lessons to round him off as a New Elizabethan.  Then James Naughtie could fit him into one of his programmes.

Hey, Andy was improving all the time and Roger was making unforced errors.  He won in three sets and Roger slunk off.  He looked as if he needed a brandy.  Andy even hugged a random child in the crowd.  Kim looked broody.

Meanwhile Jedburgh and parts of Pembrokeshire were being washed away, like Federer’s hopes.

The news is full of Pussy Riot.  Having worked in a girls’ school, I could recognise the concept.  One of the band members is called Squirrel and she was a spokespussy for the band. In a very un-Tuftylike pronouncement she accused Putin of being afraid of girls. Goodness knows how he will react to the re-formation of The Spice Girls. Probably pretty favourably, but he is only over on a flying visit to see the Judo and to get a lecture from Cameron, so he will probably miss their comeback.   David isn’t afraid of girls, I thought. He sends LOL texts to giant Squirrelly ones that you wouldn’t trust to teach your child the Highway Code, let alone the moral code.  But she is an endangered species now.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Something Sensational

Tags

Andy Murray, Boris Johnson, gold medal, London 2012, Lord Coe, Roger Federer, Stella McCartney, Team GB

Saturday

Three golds in less than an hour.  Good old Boris can challenge the gloomsters.

Apparently software enables computers to make decisions.  I wish I could have an algorithm which might help me to get out of bed.  I feel sure that some of my friends already have one that programmes them to make 10,000 purchases a day, so it isn’t so surprising that the Stock Market suffers similar compulsions.

The day ended brilliantly for Team GB after the doubles match with Andy and Laura. He will have to go to bed earlyish, I mused, as he is playing Federer tomorrow and then he has another doubles match.

I think Stella McCartney’s gear looks great, whether it is in the form of briefs or headbands.  Andy even has the sweatbands.  But who on earth designed those quasi-molar, Cyclops-eyed Wentworth and Mandeville creatures?  Probably the same weirdo who came up with Mr Blobby.

It was a day when things had come off – athletes’ shoes, or rowers’ seats.  Lord Coe said we had witnessed something sensational.

All Things Lavenderial

Tags

Andy Murray, Bradley Wiggins, Chlamydia, Clydeside, coffee, Glasgow, lavender, London 2012, Michael Phelps, Novak Djokovic, Olympics, Roger Federer, Sarah Montague’, Thought for the Day, Warren Buffet

You could sit in the sun, but there was a wind. I suggested to my friend Chlamydia that we should go to an alternative venue for those all-important coffees.

There is a barn with surrounding lavender fields which sells all things lavenderial – wreaths, scrubs, oils, essential and non-essential, cake, shortbread and lilac furbelows.  Actually they stock pink, white and tufted green plants as well and someone told me that they had supplied floral spikes for the Olympic bouquets.  They probably supply some for the local Hyacinth Bouquets too.  Chlamydia, or Clammie, as she prefers to be known, caught them out, though, by asking for lavender which suited a north-facing position.  It was worthy of Gardeners’ Question Time from Sparsholt College.  Of course, she knew the answer and she also knew that it was only available on the Isle of Wight, so there!

Then I quizzed them as to whether the lavender in the shortbread was definitely of the edible variety.  I was a little nervous since they hadn’t known the answer to the north-facing question.

After a cyclist had been run over by a bus containing the media, Wiggins had lent his support to the cause of compelling cyclists to wear helmets.  Some smart arse had objected and recommended that more people should simply get on their bikes and go onto the roads and there would be safety in numbers.  I could only think of huge flocks of Canada geese, where the outriders were picked off by preying predators, yet a percentage made it through to sunnier climes, or to more wintry ones, depending on the birds in question. We are supposed to be worth more to God than the fall of a sparrow, I pondered.  I had heard that assurance on Thought for the Day.  I thought that more academics should listen in, if they weren’t too exasperated with Sarah Montague in the rest of the programme. They might learn something.

Andy eliminated Djokovic in a very short time and then actually smiled.  Roger, looking very fetching in the colours of his country’s flag, played the longest Olympic tennis semi-final ever, against a very smart Argentinian.  When Roger nipped off for a comfort break, I myself was relieved that the Argy guy did not unfurl a banner about the liberation of the Malvinas, though that was the second publicity opportunity that they had missed.

I was disappointed in Roger’s wife, however.  She was wearing a baseball cap- and I remembered what that had done to William Hague’s credibility- and she was chewing, as if she was Alex Ferguson. My granny had always told me off for chewing in public though she had come from Clydeside.  So, I shuddered to think what part of Glasgow Alex had come from.  At any rate, cud regurgitation was not a cool look and I felt it was unworthy of the consort of the glacial elegance of Federer.

At a crucial match point a baby had started yelling and I had felt that stab of maternal anxiety that can ruin a day out or an evening meal for adults.  I was glad when it was silenced- perhaps by an usher asking if it had its own ticket, or was merely related to a ball boy or girl.  Just as well it hadn’t squawked at Andy’s match, or his mum might have dealt with it very efficiently off camera- see Scottish play.

I watched the women’s ten thousand metres race and found it amusing to see the four Africans overtake the others who were visually ahead, but who were in lap arrears.  They had to avoid a big Polish(?) guy who had chucked a cannonball an amazing distance.  He had the bad manners to run across their track.  Had he tripped they would have had to hurdle over him, like negotiating some kind of beached whale.  Then it was the turn of pregnant wives and excited children to swarm over the track.  It was getting like the rush hour.

On the radio I had heard someone quoting Warren Buffet, who commented that when the tide recedes you can see those who are swimming naked. I wondered if there was a wave machine in the Olympic pool.  It would be quite interesting to flick a switch.  However, they all seemed to favour those lycra long johns – even Michael Phelps – pity.